Norma Rae Please, I'm Beggin For Cornhole

When I start shaking from weed overblast I try to focus on an old memory and play it over and over. Distorting it and chuckling to myself until I get cottonmouth and then I head to the fridge and start pounding food.
Two weeks ago I was looking on the internet for my friend Lithium Jim. I found his phone number and called him. We agreed to meet in Fresno. Then he calld me back and said he’s in my car. I go to my car and open the doors and the trunk. He isn’t in there. But then he insists that he’s there and that I just need to smoke some reefer. So I hit the bong and blast my brain. I’m caughing, hotboxing the car and the smoke starts to suck into the glove compartment. Like there was a vacuum in there. I opened it up and Lithium Jim is looking out. I pop the hood and he jumps onto the parking lot. We went to a motel lounge and picked up some hookers. I didn’t see Lithium until breakfast.
A couple years later he emails me and asks me to crack a password on his boss’s computer. I tell him that I don’t do that shit. He drives up to my house that night. We order some hookers and then when I’m just about to wad he crashes through the door on a mountain bike and rides over my foot and I jump while my choad is still warm and now I have the worst hernea in five counties.
I’ve been in my bed playing video games on a PC Jr. That’s the last time I had a boner. My chumpsteak is still gasping for air.
I can feel the fan on my bald spot. I’m punching gravel every morning now. I was waking up at five thirty before my accident doing knuckle push ups and swimming laps. I’m practicing my one inch punch laying down.
I have big plans once I get out of my bed.

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